Fly Me To the Moon
by Elizabeth Athineu
Summary: When the CDC receives a request to exterminate a vampire from The Shop, the preternatural branch sees a new opportunity to research a new victim of vampirism. Now, Ceridwen Aislinng and her brother, Jeremy, race to the task with a team of science analysts and unwilling consultant, Richard Dees to face and hopefully study a most terrifying subject: The Night Flier.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

His name was unimportant, it always had been in his opinion. Of course, there had been a time where at functions, symposiums, and the like that he had been very well known by a specific name and status, but in the years that had passed, like the landscape of the state around him, it too had faded. Yet in landing in these airfields, in signing the registry, names were of at least some importance even to him. The years had not been kind even to a hardened killer. The explosion of the digital age, a violently changing weather world, and the stranglehold that a war on terror had on flight itself made the world a frightening place . . . even for a vampire. Though it was still relatively easy to ferry himself from venue to venue using either the same or a similar name and certainly the same plane (he couldn't dream of parting with Rowena after all these years even though she herself was a stolen vehicle) it was harder to survive, to even maintain conversation with the simplest and most simple-minded of humans. It was, indeed, as harsh a world as his father, over 100 years before, had warned him.

For many years the name Abraham Seward had suited him, then Aurelio Valentinas (he had reveled in the awe most had of its exotic appeal before it, too, grew tiresome), then for a time it was Daniel Andrews, and then there was Dwight, Dwight Renfield. Not the most original of monikers and certainly not the most pleasant sounding especially compared to Aurelio Valentinas, but it suited his purposes for many a visit to his preferred hunting grounds. That was, until, a run-in with the press or rather, psuedo-press. Sensationalist literature had once been his butter for the plain bread that was his rigorous studies and, while his mother also shared a love of it, he had never imagined it becoming so strangely used in the world nor that he himself would be the subject of it. It was, in truth, flattering to a certain degree, but after the fourth day it grew older than himself and far too quickly.

After the encounter with the terrified writer, which he could scarcely remember properly, he had considered changing the name he used to avoid suspicion. One scenario remembered him leaving the sobbing, heaving, soaked with urine writer amidst the carnage of an overfeed to explain himself to the authorities after warning him away. Yet another memory told him that he had partially turned the man as punishment for making the most demeaning of demands even after being left heaving, sobbing, and urine soaked. In that scenario he had been killed by the authorities who had come to take hold of the killer and Dwight had narrowly escaped being guilty of the blood of two fine, upstanding officers. If there was one thing Dwight could not abide, it was killing those of great value. Of course, children were primarily off limits, but since they were also primarily useless creatures they were just as apt to be prey as adults. Only those that commanded his unusual respect; soldiers who had gone above and beyond taking a great deal of enemy life with them, police officers who put their lives in harm's way daily (particularly difficult in his home state), and even sensational creative artists who thrived on the suffering of others, which he had come to see as his brethren, were all safe from being a meal provided he was not completely frenzied.  
On the very rare instances where a child had been at the receiving end of a feeding, it usually made a suitable companion until it would inevitably wander off either to die without being properly cared for or perhaps to live on in another manner much like Dwight himself. He preferred to consider the latter. Still, regardless of who was killed in his fits of hunger and why, his name never mattered in the least.  
But like all things that bear no purpose or meaning, fate, pallete and brush in hand, stepped in one day and gave it more than importance. His name, like the life he had lived as an aristocrat so long ago, was quite dead; but with the single stroke of the brush in the hand of fate, his name not only lived again, it lived with a similar affection and adoration, at least to as great an extent as it could being attached to a vampire. As the sun set, drifting behind the dusty brown clouds of the New Hampshire sky, the door to the plane opened once more and fate began to turn the wheel of time in a new direction. The creature that exited halted, a strange sensation moving through him that he hadn't felt since being followed years before. He was being followed again, though this time more from a distance and more thoroughly. In his youth, an old servant at the house had told him that a shiver or the sense of dej'a vu meant that someone had stepped over your grave in the future. There was no possible way for that to be true, he knew that now more than ever with his grave safely stowed nearby in the plane itself, but the concept was still a chilling one. If it wasn't one's grave being crossed, then perhaps it was something else, something more sinister like one's very life-line.

(*)

"Here it is, N101BL, Ernstead in New Hampshire, Cessna Skymaster make 337," a bespectacled young man announced proudly. The young woman seated next to him drew in a sharp breath and glanced over the dossier in her hand again as her partner sipped a cup of coffee in an almost self-congratulatory gesture. "So how do we do this? This has never happened before, not in New England."

"Not that we're as aware of, Jeremiah, but as I have said repeatedly, if vampires were brought to the Americas from Europe, then they would've followed all the same patterns of our history geographically speaking," she corrected, narrowing her eyes at the surveillance camera situated just so on the airstrip's alarm system. "This is our first assignment for such a thing. I suggest we follow all that our predecessors in the south did and add a few adjustments of our own for location and modern advances of course."

"And let's not forget this guy can actually fly, not just produce those prehensile wings that some of them can," Jeremiah added quickly, zooming in on part of the image. His partner, Ceridwen, looked away. This was part of the assignment she could not stomach, the slaughter and the lead up to it no matter how long or how pleasant the interaction with the victim was. "Still, I guess there has to be a way to clip his wings, so to speak."

"That is not our purpose, Jeremy," she corrected quickly. He sighed and shook his head reproachfully. "Pilot's license and plane or not, his skill was fine-tuned before death, so to speak."

"So? He wasn't Howard Hughes, so it's not like he could make one if we took it away or cornered him away from aircraft at all," Jeremy reasoned.

"You underestimate a creature with the intellect of more than 100 years. He did see the end of the Civil War, you know," she reminded coolly.

"Yeah, as an infant and in Maine, the state that saw the least, if any, activity during any war," Jeremy added with a scoffing laugh.  
Ceridwen sighed and closed her eyes, not wanting to point out that one battle, a very tiny one, had in fact been fought in Maine as well as harboring the height of abolitionism (going as far as to declare that they themselves would secede should the Union not abolish slavery). Nor did she mention as she stood and straightened the papers, turning away from the computer screen as a muffled scream followed by a gurgling 'crunch', that the general responsible for much of the success of Gettysburg was from Maine as well as Lincoln's first Vice President and Harriet Beecher Stowe herself. Maine's contributions to other wars, including the training of numerous heroic pilots in Kittery for the Second World War, and all of the rest of the state's long and rich militaristic history were pushed aside in her mind. Ceridwen's blood churned at the sound of life being drained from another human even from this distance, safely at their headquarters miles away in Virginia.

"We're losing time," she announced, hoping to prompt Jeremy to end the transmission from the camera and head off on their assignment, though their exact point of arrival would be unkown for now.

"No we're not, you're just not used to the process," Jeremy said with a heavy sigh, doing exactly as Ceridwen had hoped. "You just have to think of it like any horror flick. It's not real from this distance and . . . "

"It is exactly that attitude that prevents the saving of life," she corrected quickly. "What do your predictions have as the possible triangulation he'll make for his next target?"

"Actually, it looks like he's headed far north," Jeremy replied as he opened the dossier and pointed to three listed locations. "Bangor, Orono, or Portland Maine."

"Bangor, then. Strange, though; it has an International Airport and one that's too large for feeding," Ceridwen said with a sigh.

"They said the same thing about Wilmington, you know," Jeremy reminded as they moved quickly out of the small office they shared and into the rest of the sterile building. "Too big, too busy, too many people, and children, too. That didn't stop him."

"He had no personal connection to Wilmington," Ceridwen added as they exited the building, both feeling their heart rates pounding against the looming assignment.

"And he has some kind of connection with a place like Bangor?" Jeremy laughed as he gestured towards their own means of transportation, this one by land, a large van equipped to become both a transmission center for information and an ambulance if needed, though very basic. "Not even senators have personal connection with that place."

"He does," she said flatly. Jeremy studied her expression as she settled in. It was flat and resolved, clearly trying to keep out any fear, excitement, or other emotions that might make her susceptible to or already a victim of whatever psychic power he held. Ceridwen was chosen for the assignment because of keen skill and her ability to find out information that no one else could, though none of her superiors questioned how. Jeremy started the engine, still watching his partner carefully. She was, after all, also his adopted sister and this made their assignment to study and interact with a dangerous vampire on behalf of the Preternatural branch of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention more precarious than any they had embarked on either apart or together. She suddenly smirked as she turned to him. "He was raised there."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Feeding in Bangor would be relatively easy. He was familiar with the haunts of drunkards and criminals though Rowena would be safely tucked away at Bangor International. For whatever reason, perhaps it being the dumping grounds for witness protection of many kinds, Bangor International remained one of the safest places for keeping the plane for days, or rather, nights on end. Despite the FAA warnings still plastered all over each office wall with its make, description, tail number, and even his meaningless name for the past few decades, Bangor seemed to have the same respect for him that he did for it. Perhaps this was the reason he returned so frequently. That and, of course, the endless supply of disturbing occupants who deserved their grisly end. While he had been guilty of a few undeserved murders, even he admitted that, particularly that of children and women, he had spared more than his share of children and women from abductors and worse over the years also earning an odd and not quite connected legendary status as somewhat of a hero. That thought was more pleasing and appetizing than anything he did on a regular basis and fueled his desire to seek out the less-reputable of humankind as victims. He forgot that on many an occasion, his desire to feed and twisted sense of justice frequently made the men he slew into greater monsters than himself out of necessity, not in truth.

Again, Bangor was different and this was a different age. While the cloak he once used, adopting it after falling in love with the look during a stage adaptation of 'Dracula' was no longer part of his attire and he had discarded the more formal cravat and coat tails for less formal evening wear, he still seemed far better dressed than most here at the airport. Flight was once an occasion of severity or formality and required a certain attire. He missed those days. The office was quiet, even for a smaller airfield, and only a young woman sat at the desk. For whatever reason, she seemed out of place and something internally told him to turn and get back in the plane and fly to the next appropriate landing area. He shook it away. This was Bangor, a city accustomed to a high-turnover in the service industry and this occupation was no exception. He cleared his throat and the young woman immediately met his gaze. Her attentiveness was also off-putting and yet, somehow, he could hear and smell fear about her. This was highly unusual. Unless just about to feed, the only thing he felt from those around him was a calm and peacefulness most only dreamt of.

"Good evening," he offered kindly. Perhaps this was her first venture as a night attendant and she was uneasy in her situation, that was all. With a few well-placed words, a good smile, and well-groomed posture he could remedy that.

"It would seem so, at least as far as the weather," she replied, a quivering behind her voice that set even him off. She pushed the register forward and seemed to be trembling all the more. "I'm sure you're familiar with the routine."

"Of course," he said, wondering why on earth she seemed to lack any of the nuances of any office attendant. "The sky was practically crystal clear coming in from . . . "

"Your point of origin goes there," she interjected quickly, pointing to the ledger and derailing that part of his usual small talk. He frowned. This wasn't just unease, this was verging on being rude, something else which he could not abide. She watched him sign the ledger and fill out its contents almost completely with fabrications. "Bar Harbor," she remarked. "Not far from Grindstone Neck."

He perked up at this. Now she could be talked to. "Yes, Winter Harbor, home of the greater cottages of Northern Maine," he replied.

"You were born nearby," she said in nearly a whisper. He froze and stared at her blankly. She glanced down at the register and shook her head. "Bram Stark? Even for you that's unimaginative . . . Mr. Larkin." Now he felt his own breath and heartbeat quicken. Was he dreaming? No one knew his origin let alone his real last name.

"How do you know my . . ." before he could complete the question, he looked back up and found himself dumbfounded. His senses were more clearly attuned than even the most cunning hound and yet in the place of the young woman stood a young man, a few years older than the woman, and seeming much more bubbly and at home behind a desk with a friendlier smile.

"Know your what?" the young man asked pleasantly. The ageless pilot waved a hand dismissively and paid the landing fee as the young man made even more dull small talk than usual with context the pilot barely understood, though he was all too aware of it. "I'm telling you, this season is gonna be epic. You probably get cracks about your name all the time after it came out, right?"

"Of course," he remarked, hiding his disgust and disregard for the subject matter. "Thank you, sir. Good evening."

"No problem," the youth remarked with an enthusiasm that, even after what he had hoped to instill in the woman before him seemed irksome. "Oh and sir," the young man added. The older halted and turned for a beat. The young man smriked and leaned forward. "Winter is coming."

The pilot feigned a smile, nodded, and promptly left. Jeremiah breathed a sigh of relief and cleaned his glasses as Ceridwen stood cautiously. "Do you think he suspects anything?" she asked, calming her senses.

"With you? Of course; we all do," Jeremy said. "With me? Who knows. I hope I gave him the most annoying persona I could manage."

"This will work, I think," she said, still processing what had happened. "We just have to keep him guessing."

"Well, it's a good thing you've got what you do going for you," Jeremy said with an affectionate pat on her shoulder. "And, you know, you've got me along."

"You won't be enough to keep him guessing, to make it possible to get the information we need and to treat the illness according to protocol," she said. "We'll need another source of distraction as it were."

"Oh yeah?" Jeremy asked as he watched the plane sitting silently and perfectly still in the night air. "And who would that be? No one else has been assigned to . . ."

"We need a third person, an independent," she remarked. Jeremy watched her slip a thin-volumed book from her satchel and hand it proudly to him. "The material will do nicely as a starter, I think."

"You mean introductions, right? This guy in question is a vampire and he did try to eat this author once upon a time," Jeremy added as the two waited patiently for movement from the plane once more.

When the pilot, Bram Stark as he was now calling himself, exited and began what the two could only assume was the first part of what would be a few days' hunt, the two hurried out of the office and alerted the proper officials of their progress. Ceridwen approached the plane, trembling more visibly than she had done in the presence of the vampire. Jeremy still hadn't been sure from his research or Ceridwen's droning on about what it was that made certain people immune to a vampire's psychic power. It had something to do with mental acuity in some cases and in others an impaired sense of fear, though Ceridwen had also mentioned the presence of lipocrhome, a yellowish substance which, when present in the eye, gave it a green hue. With less than 2% of human population (which included traditional vampires) having green eyes, it made sense that this trait alone might make a person immune to one and be the reason that areas of greater concentration of green eyes such as Ireland, least likely to be plagued by them. Still there was more at work in Ceridwen's case that made her immune to his effects, though still painfully aware of his prowess and terrified of being made into another victim. Jeremy ended the conversation with headquarters as he watched Ceridwen bravely, gingerly, and with extreme trepidation, touch the tip of the plane's wing.

"Rowena," she said softly to no person in particular, but to the plane itself which didn't seem as odd to Jeremy as it might to anyone else. "He calls you Rowena."

"Ceri," Jeremy said loudly from a good distance. "Five feet at all times, remember? You might be immune to him, but he'll be able to smell you like a pot roast."

"That isn't as much a concern of mine, if you recall," Ceridwen said. Her mind buzzed as she reached into her satchel and withdrew two items, one of them the book she had shown to Jeremy before. "Even if he could detect who and what I am, the smell of this will deter him." She opened the door of the plane and nearly retched at the sight within, quickly leaving the two objects on the seat nearest her before shutting the door and rushing away. She knelt and gagged repeatedly. Before Jeremy could ask what was wrong, he noticed a small amount of blood on her hand. He fumbled through her satchel himself for a handi-wipe and cleaned away the red stain , discarding the wipe as she caught her breath. "There was no exaggeration," she said, nearly panting. "It's nearly coated inside with blood."

"I thought pilots rely on their instruments more than sight to fly," Jeremy said in confusion, having learned to put aside any disgust with such details in his line of work. "How does he get around?"

"Instinct, I should imagine," Ceridwen said looking back at the plane now with disgust. She stood and motioned for them to leave quickly. "And a sense of both direction and feel for the plane's instruments that comes with years and years of experience."

(*)

The night had been futile. The first night of a hunt was usually quite slim and it took a good two days to hone in on a target or two now that he didn't have the benefit of being able to slay the attendants of airfields as he used to. This wasn't just unusual for Bangor, it was unforgivable. He groaned at the very first, not even detectable to humankind, signs of daybreak. The sight of Rowena was a welcome one and a quick glance back at the office saw it completely empty. The sight of the young woman and then the sudden appearance of the young man without his being able to smell or hear either's change was either the most unsettling thing he had encountered in his long life (which included a secret and delightful aid in upending the horrible communist dictatorship in Romania) or a testament to the notion that a frenzy was not far away and his senses were fading as he needed to feed quickly. He grasped the handle on Rowena's door and another chill passed through him. Had the old servant been right, then someone had most recently been dancing on his grave in the past few years. In reality, something else was at work and sending his mind into strange thoughts and fears he had never before experienced. Someone else had handled Rowena, though he couldn't discern an age, a gender, or even a species to be sure it was human. A ghost, he thought, shaking that ridiculous notion away. Another vampire, perhaps? Again, he shook the notion away and simply opened the door, telling himself that he was simply not quite right being so hungry.

As if answering his inner monologue about hunger instantly, the sight of a donor unit of blood left obviously by some compassionate creature on the seat in front of him met him. Without warning or explanation, he fed immediately. The taste of it at the end of feeding always repulsed him, but this time the urge to expel any of it dissipated as quickly as the single pint in a voracious creature. It was the sight of the small book beneath it that caught his attention more than anything that night. He reached down and cautiously took hold of the book, looking it over with as much curiosity and excitement as any fanatic might gaze at a rare volume by their favorite author. He stared at it for a beat and then felt the burn of the first, though not visible, rays of the sun, made more deadly by the fact that he had only just eaten and not quite as much as he needed. He climbed inside the plane itself and drew the curtains, turning on the small light within that acted for most as a map-reading assistant but for him was a source of much entertainment the same way a flashlight acted for any child intent on continuing to read far past bedtime. Rather than settling back against the earth and fulfilling the superstitions that his sire had instilled in him, he instead sat awake in the pilot's seat and opened the book, reading the title aloud.

"The Truth Within: How to Write with Pathos and Without Sensationalism by Richard Dees."


End file.
